


We All Go Through It

by Chephirah95



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Character(s), Black Male Character, Gen, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chephirah95/pseuds/Chephirah95
Summary: This story is about the Black Men in the Iron Man, Avengers, and Captain America Movies and the racism they have dealt with and do deal with on a daily basis.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about the Black Men in the Iron Man, Avengers, and Captain America Movies and the racism they have dealt with and do deal with on a daily basis. I am a black woman so feel free to educate me on things that are directed towards black males that I might not have accurately addressed. Again, this story is a work of fiction, but plausible nonetheless. I tried to stay in character so everybody’s response to racism will not be the same or to the same degree. Also includes minor interactions with non-black MCU characters. Tired of casual disregard of racism, whitesplaining, blatantly missing the point etc...?
> 
> My dad always tells me that black people live two lives and that our existence is of a dual nature. Consider the characters: We have two men in the Army (A lot of right wing conservatives and hate groups are within the army’s ranks due to a history and tradition that glorify it – yes I am aware that not everyone in the army is like this) one in the criminal justice system so to speak (NICK FURY), and another in a foreign position of power (T’challa). Just like black people in the army are conflicted, so are ones in the “justice system,” and the ones in influential positions of power. They fight and try to uphold American values that do not tend to extend to them, or are even meant for them.
> 
> Some of the experiences below are mines. I took classes in high school were I was the only black person there. I was often “praised” for speaking so well, made to stand in the front of any class pictures to show how “diverse” it was; singled out for my natural hair; asked if I was in the wrong classroom several times on the first day of school ever since I entered junior high; was asked by a teacher once if I knew my father (my parents are married and have been for 30 years now); was told they were shocked when my parents would show up for parent teacher meetings etc.. or actually get involved in my academics (I graduated high school with a 4.0 and with honors blah blah blah) and am currently in university now. For me, seeing things like Black Girls Rock and Black Girl Magic is crucial. The natural hair movement gets me soooo excited. So I wanted to dedicate this story especially to the Black Men and Women out there who enjoy fanfiction, but often find themselves excluded from the narrative, demonized, infantilized, and over-sexualized in ways that stand to keep reinforcing the same negative stereotypes we see everywhere and that have been pushed down our throats for centuries.  
> Basically to make a long story short, feel free to comment. #Blacklivesmatter #Blackinfanfiction

“Colonel, have a seat.”

I sat in the chair across from his desk. I had been in this office many times. It was always for the same reason. I told myself the last time I was here that I wouldn’t put up with it anymore. I wouldn’t allow myself to be silenced with the not-so-subtle threat of a dishonorable discharge. I was War Machine. If things didn’t work out, I would still _be_ War Machine.

“I’m sure you are aware of the accusations General Mills is facing, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Excellent. I won’t have to debrief you.”

It was always the same damn thing. Something racial and I was “randomly selected” to take care of it. Article comes out about how black veterans are disproportionately homeless to white veterans: let Rhodey deal with it. White commanding officer is accused multiple times of racially motivated infractions and it leaks to the press: let Rhodey handle it. The diversity campaign I wasn’t invited to, and that was orchestrated by an all-white committee, failed: let Rhodey fix it. I was fed up with it. It was the same old spiel. I was chosen because of my “exceptional PR with the people”, it had _nothing_ to do with my “being black”. But I wouldn’t do it this time.

“I’m not going to handle this one.”

The tension in the room was thick. I could feel the proud looks on my parents face for doing what I was about to do.

“Colonel. I don’t think I have to remind you that your job is to follow orders.”

I guess the nice guy act was over. There would be no forced small talk. No demands veiled as options. I was going to get it all today.

“No. You don’t. But it is my duty to remind _you_ that I don’t have to follow rules that are unjust. There is no where in the rule book that states that the _black guy_ who had _nothing_ to do with _creating_ the problem has to put himself on the line in order to _fix_ it!”

 

I was getting angry now thinking about all of the black people I “apparently” spoke on behalf of. I remembered every jibe about how I only got my hard earned position because of my connection with Tony. Which was just so damn ridiculous coming from West Point graduates who literally _bragged_ about using their familial ties getting them better positions within the ranks. I remembered all the aggression aimed at me when I was first appointed Colonel. All of the “up-jumped” remarks and hostile environments I was put in. All of this from the same people who seem to have gotten amnesia since then, and act like we are the worlds best friends now and not just co-workers.

 

I thought about every black soldier and fan who specifically sought me out to thank me for inspiring them or for _changing_ their minds about America. I remember how I would inwardly cringe and smile at the same time. Cringe because the problems don’t go away with the title, and smile because you can still be great in spite of them.

 

“Colonel Rhodes I would suggest you think very carefully about your next words.”

I stood up and laid my hands on his desk. He was visibly uncomfortable with my eye contact, but he was the same one who wouldn’t let me read my report that would clear Tony when he had gone on trial for the Iron Man armor. The same one who forced me to read specific excerpts out of context that would benefit his point of view. The same one who, without sparing me a thought, tried to relegate me to a puppet acting out his scheme.

“Then hear me clearly. I will not be a pawn in your attempt to whitewash racism just to appease white fragility.”

His eyes got big and, before he could say anything else, I interrupted him.

“There’s no need for a speech. I’ll see myself out.”

 **********************************************************************************************************************************

I walked out of his office and into mines. The wall was decorated with medals, pins, fan letters, and at the center of it, my degree from M.I.T.

I remember M.I.T very well. I was 17 when I applied for early admission. I went into my counselor’s office and asked about applying. I was rewarded with skepticism. Mrs. Holloway refused to give me the information I asked for and instead went about collecting community college pamphlets that would be “helpful” to me. But not before she warned me about “taxing myself” by reaching for schools that were “out of my league”.

I was in a charter school in another school zone. I was bussed there. I can recall my parents having long drawn out discussions about the morality and practicality of charter schools. On one hand, they felt like we were kind of giving up on the community by not sending me to one of the local public schools, but the opportunities there were nearly nonexistent. Not to mention they didn’t have much in the way of a STEM program. On the other hand, the charter school was on track to the ivy leagues. My parents wanted what was best for me. Was a “better” education worth the emotional upheaval of going to a majority white school shortly after integration?

My uncle Remy used to go to city hall meetings and openly criticize the city for refusing to fund the poor public schools that would in turn, provide monetary means to help the poor neighborhoods it was located in.

 

Thanksgiving was always my least favorite holiday. There would be round table discussions about HBCUs vs PWIs. I always felt like I was taking the easy way out by going to a charter school and wanting to go to M.I.T. But even though my uncle, aunts, and my parents didn’t always share the same opinion, they all agreed on one thing: you have to choose what works for you. What you can live with.

When I got my acceptance letter in the mail I was over the moon. I had even taken out the trash without having to be told to that day. And when the fall came back around, I moved into my dorm and was on my way to become something _great_.

 

The first week of classes were the worst for me. I hadn’t met Tony yet, and I didn’t have any other friends to speak of either. I would walk into a class and all of a sudden the topic of affirmative action would come up. I hated that.

I worked my butt off to be here, and just because I’m black “ _of course_ It was affirmative action that got me in”. God forbid I be a legacy student with a D average, a relative to one of the founders of the school, or even one of the relatives of a board member, but you know, they worked for it, just like me.

 

 **********************************************************************************************************************************

 

English literature had never been a favorite subject of mines. I could write an A+ paper, but I couldn’t write a _good_ paper. Not one that would make people think or even slightly raise their blood pressure. What I could do, was regurgitate facts at whim and piece it together in a logical manner that hit all of the necessary requirements for an essay. In short, an A+ paper, but not a _good_ one.

My professor at the time was not impressed with my work. And I don’t mean because he thought it was bad, but because he didn’t believe it was _my_ work. Apparently _I_ was “insulting _his_ intelligence” by trying to pass off a paper that was so _clearly_ not mines. I wish I could say I came up with a good response that changed his entire view on the situation, but I didn’t. I took my paper and told him I was going to the Dean. I regretted that decision almost as soon as I made it.

 

“Are these your words?”

I was humiliated. Of course they were my words, but how did a person prove that _before_ the era of computers that monitored plagiarism? It became my job to persuade him. To persuade him that “ _in spite_ ” of my _color_ , I was capable of writing a complete and coherent collegiate level essay.

“Yes they are. It took me two weeks to write that paper. I have both rough draft copies in my book bag right now.”

He asked to see them and pretended to study over them. I could tell he thought this entire thing was an inconvenience of his time. He poorly concealed his rolled eyes and told me he would talk to my professor about it.

Although the paper was counted as mines in the end, professor Higgs took it as a personal challenge to make my life hell in his class from then on. He called on me frequently and often reduced my well thought out answers to “uneducated ramblings of a biased class” whenever I disagreed with him.

 

He wasn’t the only problematic teacher either. Semesters had passed and by this time, I had met and befriended Tony. He was younger than me and more of a loose cannon. He came into my dorm one day and asked me why I didn’t show up to the library to study. Honestly, I had forgotten.

He could tell something was up and wouldn’t stop pestering me until I spilled. It was awkward to say the least. At that point in my life, I had never discussed racism with a white person. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but then I reminded myself that _I_ wasn’t in the wrong here. That my feelings were valid regardless of Tony’s response.

 

“It’s just one of my professors has been really bothering me lately.”

“How so?” Here goes.

“He keeps making statements that he honestly believes are compliments. I know he means well, but he’s just wrong.”

“What did he say?”

“He tells me we need more black men like me, he constantly _praises_ me for speaking _so well_ , and once he even had the audacity to say he’s glad I’m taking the initiative to make something of my life, unlike the majority of _my people_. I wanted to point out to him why the things he says are wrong, but I’m barely passing that class right now. I’ve had enough professors retaliate against me for calling them out on something.”

Again, I would love to be able to say that I had spoken up, but I didn’t. I let things like that pass all the time. It was just easier than fighting. I mean he wasn’t _trying_ to be racist was he? It wasn’t until I got older that I learned what it really meant to “pick your battles”, to stand up for myself, to not excuse behaviors like this in fear of upsetting people or making them uncomfortable.

“I wish they would stop focusing on your race. It’s just a part of who you are. In the grand scheme of things, it’s inconsequential.”

I could tell he was patting himself on the back for that response, but how do you tell your well-meaning best friend that your being black has _everything_ to do with who you are? Everything to do with why you always feel so isolated on campus, with the way you are treated? You can’t help but feel like he’s willfully ignoring the problem. It’s easy to talk about a larger scale when the story is personal, but remember when I said it would be years before I stopped worrying about making people uncomfortable when they said things like this? Well, I chose to let it go. Like I had a thousand times before this.

It would be years before me and Tony had that talk again.

 

Yeah, M.I.T. had a lot of downs, but it had its good times too. Like the times we would prank the Harvard football team, or when a group of us would build a robot and enter it into a Yale science fair and get first prize, or even when we would stay up until 4 a.m. cramming for finals while complaining about the professors we had that year. There were plenty of good times. But they didn’t wash away the bad, they only made it more bearable.

I had gotten a reputation as Tony Stark’s friend. I’m convinced few people actually knew my name. I fought hard to get out of his shadow, but he had a big one. It’s one of the reasons I went into the Army when I found out he was going into engineering. I love my friend, but I wanted to forge my own way without him.

******************************************************************************

It took three days for everything to be cleared up. I was issued an apology and the communications liaison, whose _job_ it is to address these situations, made a public announcement about General Mills and his repeated offenses.

I was proud of myself for refusing to be used to _perpetuate_ fairness when it wasn’t the case. But it’s like I said. With or without the suit: I _am_ War Machine.


End file.
